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Buddhist Meditation is Relaxing with the Truth Print

Buddhist Meditation is Relaxing with the Truth

By

It is only when we begin to relax with ourselves as we are that meditation becomes a transformative process. The pith instruction is, Stay. . . stay. . . just stay. 


As a species, we should never underestimate our low tolerance for discomfort. To be encouraged to stay with our vulnerability is news that we definitely can use. Sitting meditation is our support for learning how to do this. Sitting meditation, also known as mindfulness-awareness practice, is the foundation of bodhichitta training. It is the home ground of the warrior bodhisattva.

Sitting meditation cultivates loving-kindness and compassion, the relative qualities of bodhichitta, which could be defined as completely awakened heart and mind. It gives us a way to move closer to our thoughts and emotions and to get in touch with our bodies. It is a method of cultivating unconditional friendliness toward ourselves and for parting the curtain of indifference that distances us from the suffering of others. It is our vehicle for learning to be a truly loving person.

Gradually, through meditation, we begin to notice that there are gaps in our internal dialogue. In the midst of continually talking to ourselves, we experience a pause, as if awakening from a dream. We recognize our capacity to relax with the clarity, the space, the open-ended awareness that already exists in our minds. We experience moments of being right here that feel simple, direct, and uncluttered.

This coming back to the immediacy of our experience is training in unconditional bodhichitta. By simply staying here, we relax more and more into the open dimension of our being. It feels like stepping out of a fantasy and relaxing with the truth.

Yet there is no guarantee that sitting meditation will be of benefit. We can practice for years without it penetrating our hearts and minds. We can use meditation to reinforce our false beliefs: it will protect us from discomfort; it will fix us; it will fulfill our hopes and remove our fears. This happens because we don't properly understand why we are practicing.

Why do we meditate? This is a question we'd be wise to ask. Why would we even bother to spend time alone with ourselves?

First of all, it is helpful to understand that meditation is not just about feeling good. To think that this is why we meditate is to set ourselves up for failure. We'll assume we are doing it wrong almost every time we sit down: even the most settled meditator experiences psychological and physical pain. Meditation takes us just as we are, with our confusion and our sanity. This complete acceptance of ourselves as we are is called maitri, a simple, direct relationship with our being.

Trying to fix ourselves is not helpful. It implies struggle and self-denigration. Denigrating ourselves is probably the major way that we cover over bodhichitta.

Does not trying to change mean we have to remain angry and addicted until the day we die? This is a reasonable question. Trying to change ourselves doesn't work in the long run because we're resisting our own energy. Self-improvement can have temporary results, but lasting transformation occurs only when we honor ourselves as the source of wisdom and compassion. We are, as the eighth-century Buddhist master Shantideva pointed out, very much like a blind person who finds a jewel buried in a heap of garbage. It is right here in our smelliest of stuff that we discover the awakened heart of basic clarity and goodness, the completely open mind of bodhichitta.

It is only when we begin to relax with ourselves as we are that meditation becomes a transformative process. When we relate with ourselves without moralizing, without harshness, without deception, we finally let go of harmful patterns. Without maitri, renunciation of old habits becomes abusive. This is an important point.

There are four main qualities that are cultivated when we meditate: steadfastness, clear seeing, experiencing one's emotional distress, and attention to the present moment. These four factors apply not only to sitting meditation, but are essential to all the bodhichitta practices and for relating with difficult situations in our daily lives.


Steadfastness

When we practice meditation we are strengthening our ability to be steadfast with ourselves. No matter what comes up—aching bones, boredom, falling asleep, or the wildest thoughts and emotions—we develop a loyalty to our experience. Although plenty of meditators consider it, we don't run screaming out of the room. Instead we acknowledge that impulse as thinking, without labeling it right or wrong. This no small task. Never underestimate our inclination to bolt when we hurt.

We're encouraged to meditate everyday, even for a short time, in order to cultivate this steadfastness with ourselves. We sit under all kinds of circumstances—whether we are feeling healthy or sick, whether we're in a good mood or depressed, whether we feel our meditation is going well or is completely falling apart. As we continue to sit we see that meditation isn't about getting it right or attaining some ideal state. It's about being able to stay present with ourselves. It becomes increasingly clear that we won't be free of self-destructive patterns unless we develop a compassionate understanding of what they are.

One aspect of steadfastness is simply being in your body. Because meditation emphasizes working with your mind, it's easy to forget that you even have a body.

When you sit down it's important to relax into your body and to get in touch with what is going on. Starting with the top of your head, you can spend a few minutes bringing awareness to every part of your body. When you come to places that are hurting or tense you can breath in and out three or four times, keeping your awareness on that area. When you get to the soles of your feet you can stop or, if you feel like it, you can repeat this body sweep by going from bottom to top. Then at any time during your meditation period, you can quickly tune back into the overall sense of being in your body. For a moment you can bring your awareness directly back to being right here. You are sitting. There are sounds, smells, sights, aches; you are breathing in and out. You can reconnect with your body like this when it occurs to you—maybe once or twice during a sitting session. Then return to the technique.

In meditation we discover our inherent restlessness. Sometimes we get up and leave. Sometimes we sit there but our bodies wiggle and squirm and our minds go far away. This can be so uncomfortable that we feel it's impossible to stay. Yet this feeling can teach us not just about ourselves but also about what it is to be human. All of us derive security and comfort from the imaginary world of memories and fantasies and plans. We really don't want to stay with the nakedness of our present experience. It goes against the grain to stay present. There are the times when only gentleness and a sense of humor can give us the strength to settle down.

The pith instruction is, Stay. . . stay. . . just stay. Learning to stay with ourselves in meditation is like training a dog. If we train a dog by beating it, we'll end up with an obedient but very inflexible and rather terrified dog. The dog may obey when we say, "Stay!" "Come!" "Roll over!" and "Sit up!" but he will also be neurotic and confused. By contrast, training with kindness results in someone who is flexible and confident, who doesn't become upset when situations are unpredictable and insecure.

So whenever we wander off, we gently encourage ourselves to "stay" and settle down. Are we experiencing restlessness? Stay! Discursive mind? Stay! Are fear and loathing out of control? Stay! Aching knees and throbbing back? Stay! What's for lunch? Stay! What am I doing here? Stay! I can't stand this another minute! Stay! That is how to cultivate steadfastness.


Clear Seeing

After we've been meditating for a while, it's common to feel that we are regressing rather then waking up. "Until I started meditating, I was quite settled; now it feels like I'm always restless." "I never used to feel anger; now it comes up all the time." We might complain that meditation is ruining our life, but in fact such experiences are a sign that we're starting to see more clearly. Through the process of practicing the technique day in and out, year after year, we begin to be very honest with ourselves. Clear seeing is another way of saying that we have less self-deception.

The Beat poet Jack Kerouac, feeling primed for a spiritual breakthrough, wrote to a friend before he retreated into the wilderness, "If I don't get a vision on Desolation Peak, then my name ain't William Blake." But later he wrote that he found it hard to face the naked truth. "I'd thought, in June when I get to the top-and everybody leaves-I will come face to face with God or Tathagata (Buddha) and find out once and for all what is the meaning of all this existence and suffering-but instead I'd come face to face with myself, no liquor, no drugs, no chance of faking it, but face to face with ole Hateful . . . Me."

Meditation requires patience and maitri. If this process of clear seeing isn't based on self-compassion it will become a process of self-aggression. We need self-compassion to stabilize our minds. We need it to work with our emotions. We need it in order to stay.

When we learn to meditate, we are instructed to sit in a certain position on a cushion or chair. We're instructed to just be in the present moment, aware of our breath as it goes out. We're instructed that when our mind has wandered off, without any harshness or judgmental quality, we should acknowledge that as 'thinking" and return to the outbreath. We train in coming back to this moment of being here. In the process of doing this, our fogginess, our bewilderment, our ignorance begin to transform into clear seeing. "Thinking" becomes a code word for seeing "just what is"—both our clarity and our confusion. We are not trying to get rid of thoughts. Rather we are clearly seeing our defense mechanisms, our negative beliefs about ourselves, our desires and our expectations. We also see our kindness, our bravery, our wisdom.

Through the process of practicing the mindfulness-awareness technique on a regular basis, we can no longer hide from ourselves. We clearly see the barriers we set up to shield us from naked experience. Although we still associate the walls we've erected with safety and comfort, we also begin to feel them as a restriction. This claustrophobic situation is important for a warrior. It marks the beginning of longing for an alternative to our small, familiar world. We begin to look for ventilation. We want to dissolve the barriers between ourselves and others.


Experiencing our Emotional Distress

Many people, including long-time practitioners, use meditation as a means of escaping difficult emotions. It is possible to misuse the label "thinking" as a way of pushing negativity away. No matter how many times we've been instructed to stay open to whatever arises, we still can use meditation as repression. Transformation occurs only when we remember, breath by breath, year after year, to move toward our emotional distress without condemning or justifying our experience.

Trungpa Rinpoche describes emotion as a combination of self-existing energy and thoughts. Emotion can't proliferate without our internal conversations. If we're angry when we sit to meditate, we are instructed to label the thoughts "thinking" and let them go. Yet below the thoughts something remains—a vital, pulsating energy. There is nothing wrong, nothing harmful about that underlying energy. Our practice is to stay with it, to experience it, to leave it as it is, without proliferating.

There are certain advanced techniques in which you intentionally churn up emotions by thinking of people or situations that make you angry or lustful or afraid. The practice is to let the thoughts go and connect directly with the energy, asking yourself, "Who am I without these thoughts?" What we do with mindfulness-awareness practice is simpler than that, but I consider it equally daring. When emotional distress arises uninvited, we let the story line go and abide with the energy of that moment. This is a felt experience, not a verbal commentary on what is happening. We can feel the energy in our bodies. If we can stay with it, neither acting it out nor repressing it, it wakes us up. People often say, "I fall asleep all the time in meditation. What shall I do?" There are lots of antidotes to drowsiness but my favorite is, "Get angry!"

Not abiding with our energy is a predictable human habit. Acting out and repressing are tactics we use to get away from our emotional pain. For instance most of us when we're angry scream or act it out. We alternate expressions of rage with feeling ashamed of ourselves and wallowing in it. We become so stuck in repetitive behavior that we become experts at getting all worked up. In this way we continue to strengthen our conflicting emotions.

One night years ago I came upon my boyfriend passionately embracing another woman. We were in the house of a millionaire who had a priceless collection of pottery. I was furious and looking for something to throw. Everything I picked up I had to put back down because it was worth at least $10,000. I was completely enraged and I couldn't find an outlet! There were no exits from experiencing my own energy. The absurdity of the situation totally cut through my rage. I went outside and looked at the sky and laughed until I cried.

In vajrayana Buddhism it is said that wisdom is inherent in emotions. When we struggle against our own energy we are rejecting the source of wisdom. Anger without the fixation is none other than mirrorlike wisdom. Pride and envy without fixation is experienced as equanimity. The energy of passion when it's free of grasping is discriminating awareness wisdom.

In bodhichitta training we also welcome the living energy of emotions. When our emotions intensify what we usually feel is fear. This fear is always lurking in our lives. In sitting meditation we practice dropping whatever story we are telling ourselves and leaning into the emotions and the fear. Thus we train in opening the fearful heart to the restlessness of our own energy. We learn to abide with the experience of our emotional distress.



Attention to the Present Moment

Another factor we cultivate in the transformative process of meditation is attention to this very moment. We make the choice, moment by moment, to be fully here. Attending to our present-moment mind and body is a way of being tender toward self, toward other, and toward the world. This quality of attention is inherent in our ability to love.

Coming back to the present moment takes some effort but the effort is very light. The instruction is to "touch and go." We touch thoughts by acknowledging them as thinking and then we let them go. It's a way of relaxing our struggle, like touching a bubble with a feather. It's a nonaggressive approach to being here.

Sometimes we find that we like our thoughts so much that we don't want to let them go. Watching our personal video is a lot more entertaining than bringing our mind back home. There's no doubt that our fantasy world can be very juicy and seductive. So we train in using a "soft" effort, in interrupting our habitual patterns; we train in cultivating self-compassion.

We practice meditation to connect with maitri and unconditional openness. By not deliberately blocking anything, by directly touching our thoughts and then letting them go with an attitude of no big deal, we can discover that our fundamental energy is tender, wholesome and fresh. We can start to train as a warrior, discovering for ourselves that it is bodhichitta, not confusion, that is basic.


Pema Chödrön is a full-ordained Buddhist nun and the director of Gampo Abbey in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. She is the author of The Wisdom of No Escape, Start Where You Are and When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times. This article is adapted from her Shambhala Publications book, The Places that Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times.

Resting Completely, Pema Chödrön, Shambhala Sun, May 2001.

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http://www.shambhalasun.com/Archives/Features/2001/may01/pema.htm

Do I Exist or Not? Print
Shambhala Sun | March 2001

Do I Exist or Not?

By:

"No one told us to see ourselves as solid entities. We came up with that on our own."

"Some kind of voidness, the complete negation of everything-is that Buddhism? Well, Buddhism is more complicated than that: things don't exist, but they don't not exist either."

On the Buddhist path, we look at our own experience. For example, people are always talking about their age. We feel we are supposed to accomplish certain things by a certain age. We want to feel we are living fully, and even though we may be very sane and stable, we have doubts about whether or not we are living up to our own expectations. This causes anxiety, edginess. Why?

When we examine our expectations, we see how many concepts we have about our life. We have gathered a set of beliefs and opinions about ourselves and we've made them solid. We've created a self-image that we feel is real.

We are all trying to find meaning in life, some kind of personal satisfaction. We yearn to discover the basic fabric of our experience. "Is this genuine love? "Is this going the way I've heard it should?" We wonder what it is that we're supposed to experience. When a good situation changes and we are no longer happy, we get a glimpse at how hard we try to hold the concepts together. We look back and realize, "That was not a genuine experience: I was always second-guessing myself, wondering if I was doing the right thing." We may feel we were fooled by the appearance of things.

From the Buddhist point of view, we are always trying to find something that is inherently real, real by nature, in our environment and in our mind. One of the basic questions in Buddhism is what is the difference between the true nature of things and the way they appear to us?

The Buddha discovered that the genuine, true thing we keep looking for isn't there at all. The whole world only appears to be real, and what appears to be the most real is ourselves. This goes beyond the level of ego-we are talking about existence itself. We feel that we exist. We feel that our thoughts, our dreams and hopes, are real.

So if the Buddha tells us that's not so, do we decide nonexistence must be real? Some kind of voidness, the complete negation of everything-is that Buddhism? Well, Buddhism is more complicated than that: things don't exist, but they don't not exist either.

The Buddha discovered the truth because he overcame his obscurations, his ignorance. It is basic ignorance that keeps us from seeing the existence/nonexistence of things. What if we were to sit down and try to find exactly where the "me" abides? Is it in the brain, is it in the heart? We would have a hard time pinning it down exactly. On one level, of course we are here. But on another level, are we as solid as we've always believed ourselves to be?

So "Who am I and what is my world?" might be the next question. Understanding this is a journey that takes a while. We need to try to understand existence before we can understand nonexistence. Things are not real the way we think they should be. Life will not turn out the way we think it should. We have built our house over an underground stream. Essentially, we have been operating with a misunderstanding about reality. And first we have to let that go.

If we learn to let go of our expectations about how things should be, then we can appreciate what is actually happening. This notion can be very subtle. One way everyone experiences this is through disappointment. We really want to have a good time, but somehow it doesn't work out that way. Not trying to conceptualize that something is going to happen in a satisfactory way, or that something is real-this is what I'm talking about.

It may sound ridiculous for me to say that things are not real. But if you think about it, you know that the world is constantly changing-even though it appears to be solid. We age and die. Nevertheless, we all want to leave our legacy.

If we learn to let go of our expectations and concepts about how things should be, then we can appreciate what is actually happening. On the Buddhist path, the purpose of meditation is to develop a stable mind in order to observe what is going on. When we meditate, we observe how our thoughts and emotions come and go.

Sometimes emotions feel overpowering. Desire, hatred, pride, jealousy-what are they really? They are torments of the mind. If someone injures us, we feel mad. We believe that we are an entity that exists and that that entity has been insulted. Therefore we feel justified in being angry because we feel our sense of self is being challenged. The anger torments us; it stirs up our mind. When we're caught up in this process we are not at ease. The path of meditation means working toward stabilizing the mind so that we are not so susceptible to these states of affliction. These states of mind are not natural; in its natural state, the mind is at ease, not tormented.

When painful emotions come up, we ask ourselves, "Why me?" We want to blame someone or something for our situation. Well, if we wait for someone else to get rid of our negative feelings, we will be waiting a long time. Buddhism is about taking responsibility. No one told us to see ourselves as solid entities. We came up with that on our own. The point here is not to blame ourselves, but we could look to our own mind as the source of the confusion.

The Buddhist path teaches that the Buddha was not the only human being who could realize the truth about reality. We can do it ourselves, but we have to accept the responsibility. The Buddhist teachings are not some heavy, oppressive, liturgical thing, but more like sane advice from a friend.

Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche is president of Shambhala International and holder of the Shambhala Buddhist tradition established by his father, the late Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche.

Do I Exist or Not?, Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche, Shambhala Sun, March 2001.

http://www.shambhalasun.com/Archives/Columnists/Sakyong/SakyongMar01.htm

Earth's Original Face Print

Shambhala Sun | March 2001

Earth's Original Face



       Distant countries may be found within a few miles, or at most a few hundred miles, of every woman, man and child in the United States. These countries are remnants of the earth that have escaped the ages of iron and steel. Here the heart still beats of mountain, creek, prairie, plains, desert, river and seashore. Such places are found in national, state and county parks and forests. They are found in out-of-the-way private lands that have so far escaped destruction by logging, ranching, farming or development.

          These places are distant because some hardship is required to reach them. To get there, like pioneers of old, we must walk carrying only a few things on our backs. The further we wander from our airports, malls, motels, cafes and houses, from our roads and even our trails, the more intimate we become with the earth as it once was.

          Thoreau called it "wildness" and "the preservation of the world." It's unobstructed nature, the earth prior to human intervention, the wilderness. It is earth's original face. Here we taste an infinite variety and beauty that makes all nihilisms trivial and absurd. Simultaneously we touch the depth and magnificence of the mind itself. For it is, after all, retina, optic nerve, visual cortex, and our own miraculous consciousness that form themselves into cloud, tree, rock, eagle, buffalo.

          Every year I go on a pilgrimage to wildness. One recent summer I hiked with two old companions, Tom Decker and Fred Hoffman, to Cirque Lake in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming. It's a tiny high lake cupped in the formation called the Cirque of the Towers. (A cirque is a natural high-mountain amphitheater at the head of a stream or glacier.)

          It takes Tom, Fred and me two days to reach the Cirque of the Towers. At 62, 58 and 57 years of age, we don't compete with the gung-ho twenty-something climbers hustling past us, making the journey from their cars to the cirque in a single arduous day. We hike five hours the first day, and on the second, we spend seven hours on a trail that labors up and down, snaking through boulder fields and frequently losing itself on stretches of bare rock above chasms and cliff faces.

          But finally we stand at 10,800 feet on Jackass Pass. We're now on the southern edge of the great amphitheater. Looking a mile and a half to the north through thin, clear air, we see the twin peaks called Camel's Hump on the opposite rim of the bowl, rising to 12,500 feet. Behind us are the Warrior Peaks, ending in the feathery spires of War Bonnet Peak. To the left, a half-mile away and five hundred feet below, a waterfall slides smoothly off broad, glacier-sculpted slabs of granite bedrock. The creek gathers itself and runs on down into Lonesome Lake. Its western shore lies to our left, rimmed by high, sharp peaks.

          "That's got to be Pingora," says Tom, pointing toward a high, sheer tower that stands up from the west end of the lake. "And there's the creek that cascades down from Cirque Lake." He points just to the left of the base of the tower, where a thin, white finger of water begins to thread down through steep slopes of rock and turf. It's a full mile away and straight across the valley.

          "Incredible," says Fred. "Cirque Lake sits higher than we are here on Jackass. And look at that ring of spires flying off to the left of Pingora!"

          "You can see why it's called Cirque Lake," I say. "It rests in a high bowl at the end of the Cirque of the Towers. It's in a little cirque within this huge cirque.” Thinking it’s a good time to look at the map, I pull out the quadrangle of paper, unfold it, and line it up with the terrain before us. "Listen to this," I say, singing out the names of the peaks that soar around Cirque Lake: "Pingora, Wolf - s Head, Overhanging Tower, Shark's Nose, Block Tower, Watch Tower."

          "Well, let's get down and find a camp," says Tom. "We don't have much light left, and I don't see many big trees. It'll take some doing to hang the food higher than a bear's teeth and claws."

          We shoulder our packs and start down the trail. After a quarter mile, we turn off into a steep hillside broken by blocky outcrops of granite interspersed with snowfields and patches of green. We stop in a cozy meadow alive with springs and tiny streams. We pull food out of our packs, setting aside packages of beef stroganoff and chicken soup for dinner. Tom throws the rest of the food into a bag, grabs a rope, and walks off to hang it. Fred starts setting up the tent on a floor of soft turf.

          I scavenge for firewood, then start a fire in an old pit on a rim of shelving granite looking out over the huge bowl. On my right is an ancient whitebark pine. Honed by weather, it has no single trunk. Its many twisted branches, thick as my thighs, writhe like octopus arms around each other. It stands hardly higher than my head, hunkering below a granite block that breaks the killing winter winds.

          Finally, chores done, exhausted, we eat a simple meal as darkness falls, leaning back against chunks of rock. Firelight flickers among the winding branches of our pine. Chilled by an icy wind that suddenly flows down the slopes from the Warrior Peaks, I scrunch in toward the dying embers, my knee stinging from glowing coals a few inches away. Fragrant wood smoke drifts past my face and nose.

          "No use adding more wood tonight. I think we'll all soon be in our bags," I say to grunts of assent.

          "Remember the old Indian saying," says Fred. "White man builds big fire. Stands far away. Indian builds small fire. Sits close."

          "That's the sad story of modern civilization," adds Tom.

          The next day we linger in camp till lunch time, then wander the streams and waterfalls below us down to Lonesome Lake. Back at camp in the afternoon, I look for a meditation seat a hundred yards from the tent where a spring rises at the head of our meadow. I find a slab of circular granite about ten feet long embedded in the grasses. Ice and gravity fractured it, then dropped it here, its shape reminiscent of a turtle shell.

          I make a cushion of my jacket and set it in the grass on the turtle's back. I rest my palm on the rock itself. It's warm and welcoming after a day in the summer sun. I stand and bow to the southeast toward Jackass Pass behind me. The steep slopes are purple with lupine. I turn and bow northwest toward the cirque within the Cirque. Up there, I know, the goal of our pilgrimage lies hidden. I sit down, loosely crossing my legs and drop my gaze down to the expanse of meadow. Rivulets braid themselves through a profusion of grasses, mosses and flowers—asters, daisies, purple gentian. After days of walking through rough terrain, my body is toned and supple. Muscle, tendon, ligament and bone fall quickly, gratefully, into the ease of sitting in meditation.

          I shut my eyes, allowing silence to flow in from the immense bowl of air surrounding me. I mark the steady hiss of old age in my ears, year by year more prominent. I listen to the quiet babbling of a little finger of water that springs out of the grass at my left hand. I hear a tiny music filled with an endless, liquid "el-el-el." And now, too, there is a stream of sibilants, a constant "shhh." And inside this are tinkling "t's" and the drip drop drip of "d's." Sound rushes through me; my body fills with sweetness. "A mantra," I think, "going on and on forever. Thousands of years before me. Thousands after."

          I look down smiling on my bubbling spring. For long minutes I watch the water float through my gaze, then swing my eyes back to the grass, a patchwork of many greens. Some clumps have blades as soft and fine as baby's hair. Near the turtle's nose, where spray leaps up, the grass is coarse, the broad blades drenched with trembling droplets. Everywhere, woven through the turf, tiny ferns raise their triangular fronds, and below them the buds of mosses cling to crumbs of moist soil. Higher up, on the tops of little hummocks where the summer sun has already dried out the soil, drought-resistant grasses, tough and wiry, turn to brown and gray.

          I breathe deep into my belly. My head is sky. My feet are earth. My buttocks granite. My mind and body fill with the great cirque, taste its eternity. Every passing season is a heartbeat, each revolving year the ebb and flow of breath.

          Then I think I hear Tom or Fred hailing me. I raise my eyes, look about, and find only a tiny gnat flying around my head. It's no bigger than a pinhead, but its buzz, here in this amphitheater of rarefied air, sounds almost like a distant human shout. Slowly, I look up across a mile of air to the thin white thread of water plunging down from the base of Pingora, then beyond to the wild circle of peaks beneath which Cirque Lake lies.

          "It's the Grail," I think. "Surely at that last Passover supper, the gods transformed the vessel from which he drank. Those dull disciples saw him raising to his lips an ordinary cup. But Jesus, amazed to find he drank sweet wine from a bowl of mountains, knew suddenly he could bear the cross. Or maybe, after all, it's the jagged dome of some ancient buddha's skull. Left over from an age when the buddhas were all giants. And this precious relic was carelessly dropped, lost by some thoughtless disciple."

          The next morning dawns clear and fine. As we cook breakfast over a small fire, we plan our pilgrimage. "We can pack a lunch and head up later today," I suggest. "You never know what weather might roll in tomorrow. We're only in the Cirque for three more days."

          “Let's get with it, then, right after breakfast," says Tom. "No shilly-shallying and fussing with gear."

          An hour later we're dropping down four hundred feet to cross over a wide, mushy meadow that lies on the flank of the broad waterfall. We balance from stone to stone through the shallow waters at its top, then start up the drainage on the other side. As it steepens, the creek turns into many terraced basins. Caught on the precipitous hillside, the waters pulse and flow, pooling between lips of rock and turf. Each step upward touches heaven. I lose myself in the twisting watercourse, balancing step by step as close to each quivering pool as I can.

          "Come on, Storlie," Tom yells after half an hour of slow progress. "Shake a leg. At this rate, we'll never get there."

          "Okay, okay," I say. "But remember, when we get there I expect you guys to join me in a nice swim."

          "I seriously doubt it," says Tom.

          "Maybe," says Fred. "I reserve judgment.”

          Fred and Tom move on ahead of me up through steeper and steeper rock. Then suddenly we're all three at the top. Cirque Lake is a thousand feet long and half that wide. It's held by sheer granite cliffs and steep boulder fields. At the far end a great snowfield sweeps down from cliffs and into the water. Dozens of icebergs, each a few feet high, float lazily, their whiteness turning to a glacial blue in the depths. Mirrored at our feet on the tranquil surface, the peaks soar in a circle around our heads.

          Hot, sweaty, I quickly start pulling off my boots, then my clothes.

          "You're nuts," Tom says. "What do you think that floating white stuff is out there?"

          Fred laughs. He sits down and begins unlacing his boots. "Come on, Tom. After five days, you need this bath."

          Naked, we enter the water quickly, walking out on big slabs of shelving granite. We know if we hesitate, we’ll never do it. We scream as we hit the water, the echoes flying back and forth in the circle of peaks. Within a minute, we're stretched out on flat rocks in the sun—chilled, numb, and panting.

          "God, we've done it," I exclaim. "We've found the Grail. What a day. What a beautiful day."

          Tom agrees. "It's hard to top."

          And now, Fred points out, it’s time for lunch. And so it is.


Erik Storlie studied with Shunryu Suzuki Roshi and Dainin Katagiri Roshi, helping to found the Minnesota Zen Meditation Center, where he currently serves on the board of directors. He is author of Nothing on my Mind: Berkeley, LSD, Two Zen Masters, and a Life on the Dharma Trail



Earth's Original Face, Erik Storlie, Shambhala Sun, March 2001.



http://www.shambhalasun.com/Archives/Features/2001/Mar01/storlie.htm

Meeting Shuddup Lama Print

 

Meeting Shuddup Lama

By

Paul Maxwell gets married in Mongolia, and gets to know a most unusual lama.
 

My fiancee and I were on our way from Hohhot, the capital of Inner Mongolia, to her family’s house in the desert, where our wedding would be held. She said we should bring a present for the old lama who lived near her parents, and I asked what would make a suitable gift. “Oh, you know lamas. They always like liquor or bottles of snuff.” She wasn’t joking. I told her the lamas I had been around were mostly non-drinkers. “Not our lama,” she said. “He smokes and drinks. Plus, he’s clairvoyant.”

A few days later we called on the lama, whose name was Shuddup, to present the gift (a bottle of snuff) and to tell him about the upcoming wedding. His house was a tiny, weather-beaten adobe shack in a patch of scrub leading up to the dunes. He lived in one of its two rooms and used the other as a shrine. “So,” Shuddup Lama said when he heard the news, “you’re going to marry a man who can’t speak our language and can’t eat our food.”

“Well, he can eat our food.”

“And your father can’t even talk to him!” He busied himself for a few minutes feeding dried cow dung into the mud-brick stove that was his sole source of heat. It was Christmas Day, and the temperature was already below zero. Turning to me, he said, “You’ve got a camera, right?”

“Well, yes.”

“And you want to take a picture?”

Sure I did. But how did he know I had a camera? It was out of sight in my shoulder bag. Was that an example of his extrasensory perception, or an example of how predictable foreigners are?

He was wearing extremely ragged and dirty clothes, but slipped into the closet-sized shrine room and reappeared a moment later in a brown robe, maroon shawl, and peaked yellow hat. He sat cross-legged on the k’ang, a carpeted sleeping platform, with the loose pages of a Tibetan book on a little table in front of him. I took two pictures, and then he immediately returned to his stool in front of the stove. We stayed for about an hour, and when we left he said he would see us at the wedding the following day.

“What do you think about our lama?” Sarengowa’s sister asked me when we got back to the house.

“I liked him. He was dressed in rags...life must be hard for him.”


“Don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s poor,” she said. “Shuddup’s got plenty of money. He lives that way because he just doesn’t care.”

I expected him to wear his lama gear to the wedding, but he arrived on horseback in a Chinese army tunic. Inner Mongolia, like Tibet, is an Autonomous Region of China, and during the Cultural Revolution the Mongolian lamas were forbidden to practice their religion or wear their robes. Monastic dress is permitted now, but few of the “country lamas” have gone back to it. Still, the army tunic was a surprise, and so was Shuddup’s wedding present: a lovely piece of pale gold silk and a generous sum of cash.

He had cut his finger on a barbed wire fence, and had tied a grimy strip of cloth around it. I had a first aid kit in my pack, so I cleaned the cut with antiseptic and put a band-aid on it. The band-aid was a real novelty; he seemed quite pleased with it and showed it to several people. At that moment he apparently decided that we would be friends, and at the wedding party we sat together for several companionable hours, unhindered by our lack of a common language.

The party started in the afternoon and continued until ten o’clock the next morning. Shuddup Lama sat cross-legged, with his back straight, drinking barley liquor and chain smoking, from beginning to end. Then he stood up, walked outside, mounted his horse, and rode off. He was 75 years old at the time.


Shuddup Lama’s reputation as a clairvoyant was due in large part to his ability to locate lost animals. For Mongols who live outside the towns, herding sheep or goats is often the only occupation possible. Most people also keep some horses, cows and donkeys. An animal that strays into the dunes is unlikely to survive for long; it will either die of thirst or fall to a predator. Vultures will eat the soft parts (eyes and genitals) before the creature is even dead. But Shuddup could tell a herder where to look for a stray, and the local people credited him with a very high success rate.

My mother-in-law, Mem (“Mother”), told me about the last time she had lost a sheep. She searched the sands in vain, and naturally she told Shuddup Lama about it. Two days later he came to the house and said, “You can find what’s left of your sheep at the market tomorrow.” He had just paid a visit to a Chinese family who lived about a mile away. They were considered newcomers to the area, having arrived from the south about twenty years earlier. (There are now more than twenty million ethnic Chinese in Inner Mongolia, compared to about two million Mongols.) The woman of the house served him tea in the yard, which was a strange thing to do in early March when winter was still lingering. There was a pile of sheepskins on the ground, and the lama casually ran a hand over each hide. Only one was fresh. But in the course of the conversation, the woman made a point of saying that they hadn’t done any slaughtering lately. She also mentioned that she was planning to take the hides into town to sell the following morning.

The next morning at dawn, Mem was waiting behind a roadside dune on horseback. When the Chinese woman went by on her little motorbike loaded down with sheepskins, Mem followed her. She confronted the woman in the marketplace and identified the hide. The protestations of innocence were feeble: “We didn’t know it was your sheep. Somebody gave us this sheep...” It was agreed that an animal would be given in compensation, but this didn’t settle the matter, because the sheep that was eventually presented was obviously not equal in value to the one that was stolen. It was doubly aggravating because the two families had always been on good terms, and Mem had been generous over the years with milk, cheese, butter and clothes for the woman’s ten children. The thief had attended our wedding.

Every Mongol house in the region has a pair of three-pronged spears planted in the ground in front of the door, in token of the honor Genghis Khan paid the local warriors 700 years ago when he chose them to form his household guard. Genghis, faced with a thieving neighbor, would probably have killed every member of the family, as well as their relatives, pets and livestock. But Mem did nothing; she didn’t even report it to the police. Had four centuries of Buddhism made the Mongols more peaceful? I don’t know, but what interested me most about the story was Shuddup Lama’s role in it.

Because of his reputation, everyone in the area naturally informed him whenever they were missing an animal. He was therefore in a unique position to see a pattern to the disappearances, which led him to deduce that there was a thief at work. The Chinese woman’s husband had been stealing a sheep from each flock in turn, so that no single herder ever suspected that the loss was due to anything other than natural causes.

Nearly two years later, on our first visit to the desert since our wedding, over a leisurely breakfast of salted milk tea, butter, cheese, and millet, I mentioned to Mem and Aweh (“Father”) that I intended to go to Shuddup Lama’s house that afternoon. “I want to ask him some questions about Buddhism,” I said. “Do you think he’d mind?”

Mem laughed. “Buddhism’s the last thing he wants to talk about. He’s a lot quicker to pick up a bottle of booze than a Tibetan book!” She and Shuddup had been friends and neighbors for more than 50 years. We were still at the breakfast table when he rode up on his horse. “It’s his psychic power,” Mem said sarcastically. “He knows you’re here.”

But Shuddup wasn’t coming to see us; he was so angry he hardly noticed our presence. He had a little spread just east of Mem and Aweh’s; it wasn’t much land but it was enough for his fifty head of sheep. Now he had discovered that another family was secretly bringing their sheep over to his property at night to graze. This is more serious than it may sound; grass is a scarce resource that must be carefully managed. There are often disputes over grazing, but they usually arise when someone hasn’t been keeping a close watch on their animals. Deliberately leading a herd to a neighbor’s land was outrageous, and talking about it brought his anger to the boiling point. “I’m going right over there!” he said, and quickly left.

Late that afternoon another neighbor dropped by, and he added to the story. Shuddup had gone to the home of the transgressors to confront them. But the man wasn’t there, and his wife had just set out some fresh millet and a jar of new butter. Fresh millet is a once-a-year treat, and the pretty young housewife fixed Shuddup his favorite dish: a big bowl of tea, with heaping spoonfuls of millet, butter, dried cheese and sugar added. After that he couldn’t bring himself to tell her why he’d come in the first place. But by the time he got home he was mad again.

I had sent a photo of Shuddup to some Buddhist friends in the U.S., who of course thought it was funny that his name sounded like the English expression, “Shut up!” Now Sarengowa explained the joke to the neighbor. He said, “Ha! Shuddup needs to shut up! He’s always arguing with everybody!” He added that the elderly lama had recently gotten into a fistfight with a young Chinese man who worked for a local family. Once again it involved some sheep or cows being where they shouldn’t have, and Shuddup started throwing punches. I asked who had won the fight. “Well, you might say Shuddup Lama did. Remember, he’s 77. The other guy was afraid one good punch might be fatal. It kind of kept him on the defensive.”

Shuddup Lama generally avoided the advice-to-the-lovelorn type of fortune telling—he said that people didn’t want to hear the truth—but occasionally he made an exception. A young woman from a local family moved to a distant city and married a man she met there. She returned with him to the desert for the New Year holiday. The young couple had been quarreling constantly since their wedding, and the husband decided to consult Shuddup about their problems. The lama was blunt: “This marriage won’t work out. There will never be any children. If a child is born, you won’t be the father.” The man returned to his in-laws’ house and accused his wife of adultery—in the future! Later the woman revealed that Shuddup had divined her husband’s secret: he was impotent. The following New Year she came back alone; they had divorced.


Back at home in Tokyo, I asked Sarengowa if she had ever consulted Shuddup Lama. “Just once,” she said. As a teenager who dreamed of a career in classical music, she wondered if she would ever be able to escape the desert and move to Hohhot, a three-day bus ride away and the only place she knew where her dreams had a chance of coming true. (When I first met her, in Hohhot, she was a cellist in the Inner Mongolia Radio-Television Orchestra.) “So I asked him: Will I ever get to Hohhot?”

And he said, “Oh, you’ll get to Hohhot all right. And then you’ll keep on going. You’ll keep on going!” Shuddup Lama died in his sleep last year at the age of 83.

Paul Maxwell is a writer and editor in Berryville, Virginia. 

Meeting Shuddup Lama, Paul Maxwell, Shambhala Sun, March 2001.



http://www.shambhalasun.com/Archives/Features/2001/Mar01/maxwell.htm

Nothing But the Present Print

Nothing But the Present

By

Robert Hirshfield on Toni Packer's no-trappings approach to Zen.
 

 
With her eyes closed, with the morning light streaming through the windows, Toni Packer begins by saying, "I want to talk about the breeze that blows right through this room, touching skin, hair..."
 

In a way, Toni's teachings are like that breeze: simple, free-flowing, without technique. But they can also spin you around like a strong wind coming from a silent place.

In a private meeting with Toni, on the fifth day of a week-long retreat I attended recently at her Springwater Center, I spoke to her about my fears of death.


"What exactly are you afraid of?" she inquired.


"The loss of the known," I said. "The loss of body, mind."


"But isn't it really the loss of an idea that you fear? Our fear of death is the fear of letting go of our story."

Toni Packer is seventy-three. This, briefly, is her story:

Raised in Nazi Germany, Toni was and is passionately allergic to all forms of authority. As a gifted Zen teacher at the Rochester Zen Center of Philip Kapleau Roshi, she began questioning the bowing, the rakusu-wearing, the teacher's special seating. Were they not just spiritualized expressions of hierarchy and conditioning?

She found herself drawn to the teachings of Krishnamurti, who said, "Truth is a pathless land." When he broke with the Theosophical Society in 1929, he said, "I maintain that no organization can lead man to spirituality. You are all depending for your spirituality on someone else, for your happiness on someone else, for your enlightenment on someone else."


Toni's break with the Rochester Zen Center came in June of 1981, and it was wrenching. After Toni was put in charge of the center during Kapleau-roshi's absence, a meeting was held in which she was accused of subverting the Zendo's rituals. "Some people would love this type of thing, thrive on it," she told Lenore Friedman in Meetings With Remarkable Women. "Whereas for me, having grown up in Hitler's Germany, this really touched off a lot of old fears—of being accused, of being denounced."

Toni left to found her own center, the Genesee Valley Zen Center. Later, she established a new center south of Rochester called the Springwater Center. It's a place notable for the absence of the usual religious birdcalls: symbols, ceremonies, structures and ideologies. The meditation hall is lined with neat rows of cushions, but no one is obliged to meditate during retreats. Your obligations are limited to keeping silence and doing the job you have been assigned.

"The work at Springwater," Toni maintains, "is attending to what is happening within and without, from moment to moment."


As Toni speaks, with her eyes habitually closed, with a slow shuttling of her arms that seems to help with the birthing of her words, I hear a great deal about listening. She talks about a "new listening," which she also calls "awaring."

"What is this new listening?" she asks. "All the senses open and in touch in a new way."

And if there should arise the expectation of getting something from this listening?

"Then listen to the rumble of expectation. The whole organism is involved when there is expectation."


And if comparison muscles its way in?

"Listen to the buzz of comparison as it comes into awareness. Drop the objects of comparison and listen to what it does physically."

Before Toni's morning talks during retreat, the wooden partitions that fence off one row of meditators from another are hauled away like pieces of a dismantled stage. There's a pleasurable wiggling of toes, a pulling up of knees, a hungry swiveling of heads towards the silver-haired woman taking her place in her chair. Accustomed to the preponderance of women at Buddhist retreats, I'm struck by the large number of men in the hall. I hadn't expected that at Springwater, with its strong female teacher.

To some who come to Springwater from the Zen and Vipassana traditions, with their strict meditation timetables, the lack of structure can be a problem. Toni has said of this issue, which comes up at every retreat: "This desire for discipline, imposed discipline—it's as if this human being, this body/mind, were incapable of arousing energy when it is really interested. It is very capable!"

It is not structure but Toni's presence—alert, silent, always listening—that seems to arouse the alertness, silence and listening in those gathered around her. (I can hear Toni admonishing, "You are projecting things onto Toni. Toni does nothing." Maybe so. Maybe just her being fully there is enough to inspire fully-thereness in other people.)


The first time I speak privately with Toni, in her tiny meeting room with its two clocks, I ask her about awareness and effort. Toni has made the distinction between the normal, dualistic thinking mind, and awareness, which she defines as "presence without a self-referential center." So is effort required for awareness to happen? A purple and blue afghan covers her knees, and with her glasses off, her face looks soft and unprotected. Outside the room, people are waiting on cushions to see her, but she is in no hurry to answer. Effort, she says eventually, is incompatible with awareness. Effort implies tension, and usually involves some storyline about "I," "me," or "mine."

"It is important," she emphasizes, "to be without the tension of creating a storyline. In the awareness I am talking about, there is no tension. There is freedom."

Toni falls silent. I notice her looking at my fingers. "Are you aware of your fingers touching?" she asks. I was not.

Toni's own life during the retreat is anything but easy. Her husband of fifty years, Kyle, is suffering from cancer, from which he will later die, and she drives daily to the care facility to see him. Joan Tollifson writes in her memoir, Bare-Bones Meditation, about one of her meetings with Toni:


"There's too much pain," I tell Toni. "I'm not sure I can stand it."

To which Toni replies: "It takes enormous patience to see the sorrow. To be with it. To not move away. Or find easy comfort. To look. To see human history. Because it is not just one's personal pain that is contacted. It's humanity's pain, the universal sorrow of human beings."

In the group meetings that are held twice a day during retreats, any subject can come up. A woman speaks of a sudden craving for marshmallow cups. Toni suggests she might try going with the craving and order a crate of them. Or she could stay with the sensations the craving arouses, like salivating. Or she could watch the wily mind as it maneuvers: it's okay, you can order marshmallow cups today, but maybe not tomorrow.

Once Toni asks the group what's going on with them. A woman barely out of her teens replies, "There's nothing going on. I can't wait until Saturday and the retreat is over." Toni throws back her head and laughs. The remark is free of self-judgment, which delights her. Judging, she observed, "is an enormous habit, which by now is probably right in our DNA. We judge everything."

At one point during these meetings, I encounter a side of Toni that grates. We are talking about gurus, and people are taking turns carping about their sexuality, their money, their vanity. Toni chimes in about the pope's visit to Poland. "He let himself be adored by over a million people," she fumes.

My first thought is, "She is so angry. Is she aware how angry she is?" Thinking about it later, I don't know what to make of my dismay. Everyone gets angry. Everyone has a blind spot. With Toni, it's papal grandiosity. So why do I overreact? Is it because of my own concepts of immaculate guruship?

"Our ideas keep us from the innocent energy of life," Toni says in one of her talks.

Of the problems that get aired at Springwater, one's "Niagara of thoughts," to use Toni's phrase, is the most persistent. Toni assures everyone that this "Niagara" is not eternal but dissoluble.

"There is an awaring that is free from self-reference, maybe only for moments at a time. And in that, there is no right or wrong, good or bad. There is freedom to observe, to see, to be.

"Actually, these moments happen on their own. I have never found a cause for this opening, for this presence. And reading the literature, everyone calls it causeless, unconditioned."

Like Krishnamurti, Toni claims not to be a teacher. "If you are not a teacher," I say to her, "why are you here? Why is this place here?"

Toni doesn't say. She just tilts her head. She takes no offense.

The whole teacher/non-teacher issue comes heavily seeded with confusion. The regular retreatants uninhibitedly claim to be Toni's students, and Toni doesn't seem to mind. But she forcefully reiterates that the images they create and perpetuate around her are the products of thought, memory, projection, conditioning. The things that matter to Toni spring from the timeless moment, innocent of conceptualization.

Inasmuch as Toni does give teachings she is, in the conventional sense, a teacher. But it is risky to put a label on Toni. She stated in a 1996 interview in Tricycle magazine, "I do not have the teacher-image of myself. It dropped away quietly." When someone comes to her for answers, she says, "Unconfuse yourself by not knowing," and this gets a laugh. But Toni is serious.

"What are we doing here?" she inquires. "What are we doing in sitting? The first answer is, 'I don't know. I don't know.' Is this a genuine 'I don't know' or a sort of throwing up one's arms and eyeballs in despair? There are many different 'I don't knows.' The one I am referring to is this true not-knowing, and therefore, more freedom from all the stuff we know, and entering into it freshly. Not-knowing!"

One morning, Toni giggles as she begins to tell a story about one of her recent California retreats. A storm has leveled some trees on the land where the retreat is being held. Chain saws are brought in and the silence of the retreat is shattered. Everyone has paid a lot of money for the silence, so there is great dismay. One woman protests and a halt to the sawing is ordered, at least while the talks are being given.

Toni poses the question: How do we live with circumstances that grind on the nerves? In the presence of sawing, what else is going on?

"Is it possible," she wonders, "to purify perception by beholding what comes in between? Our own psychological and physical reactions do come in between. And they may abate when they are seen.

"Actually, quite a number of people learned a lot from this chainsawing about this amazing ability to drop annoyance factors by not thinking in certain terms about them. Not resisting. Not resisting. Do we know what this means, not resisting? Noticing all the gross and subtle resistances that this body/mind has cultivated or become habituated to over a lifetime. They are subtle, and so is the attention that detects and replaces them. The seeing replaces the habit that is seen. The seeing is open and quiet and present. Empty."

Toni is aware of the difficulty some people have with her unflinchingly simple here-and-nowness.

"It means looking just at what's there, at one's mind, and the workings of one's mind: the boredom, the judging, the 'I am a hopeless case.' It's nothing spectacular." 

Robert Hirschfield is a social worker in New York and a freelance writer whose work has appeared in a number of spiritually-oriented magazines.

Utterly Simple, Toni Packer, Shambhala Sun, March 2001.


http://www.shambhalasun.com/Archives/Features/2001/Mar01/packer.htm

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